


Physical Therapy

by LateralFlexor



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime, Transformers: Robots in Disguise (2015)
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 11:09:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13569339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateralFlexor/pseuds/LateralFlexor
Summary: Starscream's state of mind post-coma is beginning to affect Ratchet. With a treatment plan in place, the old medic begins to enact it, if not to help Starscream, then at least to prevent Optimus from uncovering a truth.





	Physical Therapy

                The ticking of the console buttons under Optimus’ careful digits was as graceful and fluid as ever. A more romantic mech would drone on about it being reminiscent of the mercury river by the Wastes. At least Optimus knew his personality coding much better than that. And, at least Ratchet would be more adept at the art of love than to pick something as beneath the Prime as the _Wastes_. The brief thought left a bad taste on his glossa, hypothetical as it was.

                Optimus turned his helm to address his proxy second, “Ratchet, old friend, your shift is over. Perhaps now would be an apt time for a-” Ratchet’s helm feigned a strained lull in his direction, “Break.”

                “Yes, because the duty of sitting beside you to monitor the same nonexistent blip has left me feeling taxed.” The medic was smiling, albeit tiredly, if only due to the screen-strain. His optics were almost thirsting for the old mining pings swarming with Vehicons to smack silly, but he supposed in his _wise age-_ as his old friend had put it before- that the lack of action was kind to them in its own way.

                He’d been informed Optimus had grown haggard ever since Micronus performed that ironically Primus-forsaken order to sap his reserves. Bumblebee, he thought, had been overdramatic in his recollection to the medic, but after watching the shift in Prime’s demeanor this past month, he saw for himself the former scout wasn’t far off.

                Knowing himself, his fit would have seen him be tossed to the Pits for how he would have reacted. Prime was as sacred to them as anything from Cybertron was anymore; it was loathsome how many bots seemed to forget it.

                Prime was not as active as he used to be, that was for certain. By comparison, it appeared Ratchet had absorbed some of the youth within him. Prime spent longer hours in recharge on the other end of the berth, spent more time refueling, bathing, and even interfacing. Oddly, for somebot who enjoyed it hard and quick, Ratchet had taken solace in the slowing touches, the lingering kisses, and learned patience.

                The time they’d spent alone on the ship was a boon after the years under fire. Ratchet recalled the hour just last night when the two had clumped close together, inseparable as they coupled under the moonlight pouring through the frontal glass of the ship. The softness he’d thought he’d outgrown was now what he craved. In fact, the time he was presently spending with a burlier Prime had been leading him to enhance his own skills in that area.

                “Ratchet.”

                The red and white mech cocked his helm, a chevron catching the glow from the nearest button.

                “Your alarm,” Optimus reiterated coolly.

                The buzzing was pretty apparent. Ratchet tweaked the beeper in his arm. He was needed elsewhere. “Thank you, Optimus.” The doctor stood, servo firmly on Prime’s thigh as he did so. The larger mech never fussed about that, and that much he appreciated. “Good night.”

                “Good night, Ratchet.”

                There was a stop before the stop, as it were. First the energon dispenser, then the patient. He’d been so silent lately and kept to himself quite seriously every cycle. Their sessions weren’t included in the report formalities he and Optimus couldn’t shake the habit of fulfilling, but sooner or later something would need to be done about all of it. The mech needed time, that much he could understand regardless of if it was deserved, yet he knew if he were to require any real treatment for the mech he’d have to discuss a change of wayward course with Optimus.

                Energon in tow, Ratchet unlocked the door to the private chamber towards the back of the ship. Once, his patient had said the thrum calmed him. Now Ratchet wasn’t so certain. The spark monitor he kept on the feebler mech never suggested recharge for any determinate time. At the time Ratchet proposed a different diagnosis: malnourishment. The mech’s new- or rather former- model required a more refined fuel, or so he presumed, but internal scans varied imperceptibly from years ago. It was noted the patient only fought the first cumbersome checkup. Soon, the mech’s willingness to speak fled as well. After some forgivable failures on his end, the doctor produced a different proposal:

                An illness of the psyche.

                It wasn’t his area of expertise, but the displayed mannerisms and altered outlooks couldn’t be ignored. They were not impossible to understand either, but the way the medic went about his own troubles were far less degenerative, and he knew it was on account of his trusted support system. The patient had been through his fair share of chaos- a share, if “Team Bee” had any say, that was far smaller than he’d earned. In the moment Optimus had debriefed him, a catatonic form draped over his shoulder, Ratchet thought it made perfect sense to take him along, caretaking aside.

_“If he wakes, just let him murder the psychotic warmonger. It isn’t as though the council will serve him any justice.”_

                The thud of his patient’s body on the berth was loud that afternoon, but not as loud as Prime’s resigned grunt.

                The engine mumbled distantly, a dim sound to match the room’s somber blue. An equally somber mech sat on the floor, peds crossed like they had been since that morning when he’d checked in.

                Ratchet crept up unwittingly before setting the tray on the stand. A wobbly bottom on one cube rattled excitedly until tapering off in the soundwaves of the engine. At the sound, the sitting mech shifted, the only greeting he’d exchanged since last week.

                “Starscream,” Ratchet addressed him, “I’ve brought you your meal. Would you come fuel with me?” Hopefully today would not be the day to revive the livid mech within; Ratchet hadn’t scratch-proofed his paint in eons.

                The seeker twisted to rise, wings swooping by. He continued his quiet aura, not paying the physician special mind.

                Satisfied to a minimum, Ratchet sat beside him at the agreed distance on the berth. He took his own fuel in banally, keeping watch on the flier out of the corner of his optic. After three steady sips, he’d finished meanwhile Starscream had yet to so much as eye his.

                “I realize it’s late, but is there anything I can bring you? I know you know we stopped yesterday but I don’t recall having said a great deal about it. We were missing a toggle switch,” Ratchet said as though the mech asked. He took another look at the full cube before moving his gaze to the floor, sitting, and taking a vain swig from his empty cube, “We found one in Veris 5 but the southern half of the planet had better pricing. I installed it last night before coming over.”

                The seeker did not respond and instead fingered the cube with a semi-crusted digit.

                Ratchet’s optics were caught again, “May I see that?”

                Starscream’s frame sagged to the floor as if relieved an excuse came by not to eat. Servo extending, he pressed his knees to the floor, letting himself be inspected.

                As Ratchet suspected: minor rusting, but what from he’d yet to know. There wasn’t a high moisture count in this chamber. He’d never witnessed aggressive or nervous digit chewing from the seeker either, but that was far-fetched in itself; oral fluids didn’t corrode their metal alloy in such a way.

                After a few moments, Starscream said one of the few phrases he could anymore: “May I go to the washracks?”

                Ratchet relinquished the servo gently, almost placing it at Starscream’s side as to make sure he didn’t fling it. “Yes, but I’d like to buff that when you return.”

                The seeker stood without his occasional instability and padded to the room.

                The former Con’s index was bare at the tip, reddish roughness marring the normally immaculate claws. Some gray showed, but it lacked a great deal of luster. Then, Ratchet understood.

                Should he find any paint flecks nearby, then he’d know for certain, but it seemed the flier was malnourished to some degree. How so under his close surveillance was unnerving, a self-inflicted insult to the oath he took on Cybertron. He’d always made sure to leave the fuel accessible from the backup container in the corner counter, but still Ratchet had the decency to drop off or hand-deliver a cube every four hours.

                Minutes went by before Ratchet stopped his internal prattle. The sound of harsh water rushing from a spout hit his audials and a moment later, the other mech stepped out of the narrow doorway.

                Starscream knelt again beside him. Out of polite consideration, Ratchet had been minding his own tonight, but he found himself willing to prod the hornet’s nest. He took his patient by the arm and turned him more to his front again, holding the seeker’s wrist in his hand by five determined digits. What he was met with was more than merely disturbing.

                Starscream’s optics were a dusky red, a perfect match to his saturnine soul and manner. Ratchet was hard-pressed not to react overly horrified to seeing something so grim.

                “Starscream…” he asked carefully, “Have you been reducing your power levels?”

                The hollow optics darted but he still didn’t answer.

                Primus above, this mech was starving himself.

                “Prolonged periods spent in power-save weaken your immunity and energy conservation abilities as it is.” Ratchet felt a swell of anger that he hadn’t seen something like this coming; he supposed he’d grown too used to only noticing healthier outlets chosen by his comrades. Still holding the servo as tenderly as he could manage in his spite, he reached back to his mobile kit to remove a finger-sized buffer and a vinegar solution.

                Without a Cybertronian depot open to letting in semi-traitorous Autobots- one of which without an identification tag- circumstances left Ratchet to simple Earth chemistry. His own tag required renewal within the next few months, but without a council-sanctioned agency within range, returning planet-side to home was fading more and more by day.

                What home was that anyhow? Fewer belongings than even a homeless mech to his name and a shattered reputation lorded over his helm as a penalty for an impossible job. He’d die before catching every rogue Con in the galaxy.

                As he soaked a small swab in the solution to rub the talon, he imagined the war to not be “over.” If he had to return to a post, what would become of the Second in Command? If Starscream induced his own decay in the presence of _attentive_ Autobots, what would he do in the stockade? This modus vivendi was luxury ten-fold compared to whatever hole they’d throw the seeker in.

                His rubbing became somewhat fevered during his resurrecting old worries, enough for the flier to notice and submit to curiosity over cover. But still, he remained quiet.

                “I,” the medic vented out. He wiped a clean section of pressed cotton over the loose sediments speckling the digit. Ratchet switched to a professional calm again to diagnose, “With a suppressed intake of fuel, your fuel lines begin to sever the transference of energon to ‘non-essential’ parts of your frame. The further from your spark, the less needed. Alloy coloration is quite telling when it’s exposed.”

                Halfway through turning over the servo in his own hand, Ratchet realized Starscream had heard this information before. The medic thumbed the digit’s tip, concentrating on its significance to him and the other. “Since you have been without your initial build for so long, reverting to it has also disrupted and, for lack of a better word, confused your energy consumption alerts.” He looked up into the shaded optics, “I presume your pings are few and far between with power-save, but your anatomy will gradually atrophy if you do not increase your consumption.”

                Starscream held back from fidgeting.

                “But I hypothesize you are using that to your advantage,” the Prime’s medic murmured.

                Ratchet’s statement was worse than any plasmabullet or blasterfire. The reminder was unneeded.

                Sternly, the other started up again and Starscream felt smothered. “Starscream, I don’t know what physician you believe I’ve become over this war, but I am not letting you offline. That is not what I’m here for.”

                “You’re here to assist Optimus Prime as he roams near Cybertron in hopes of deflecting insurgent forces from initiating another round of killing,” the seeker commented as if from personal observation.

                Ratchet was impressed his cognitive functions were as sharp as before. Self-imposed starvation seemed to be a latent reaction after waking up. “I am here because he is what I have left. And he requires my help, you’re correct.”

                Starscream kept to himself on the floor, any verbal lashings Ratchet would have expected months prior remarkably reigned in with each calculated response. “Why are we not grounded?”

                Sighing, Ratchet stood as he collected his tools. “We are not on Cybertron.”

                “But Veris 5 is not far from Cybertron.”

                Ratchet felt a little validation at the idea Starscream cared enough to listen to him these past weeks, if not then than at the very least today. He sighed, “We were forced to backtrack. We will be there in time.”

                Starscream resigned to the medic’s explanation. His slumping form had Ratchet sparing him any further straining conversation.

                Setting down a much smaller cube to the floor, Ratchet kept himself bent a moment longer to make optical contact with the other. “Refuel and recharge. I have no coming duties as we prepare to enter warp space so I will be back tomorrow morning to ensure that you have. _Both_ cubes.”

                Crawling to the berth as if paralyzed, the seeker curled, “And why would it matter to you the sleep I receive?”

                “Because you are my patient.” Ratchet fastened the lock and made way back to the ship’s bridge.

\--

                Ratchet was only able to snag a few hours rest at the bridge’s mainframe. Optimus had been kind enough to bring him a warming tarp but as soon as it grazed his frame, he woke in a lazy flurry. “What no, no no, I have things I have to do.”

                Optimus began to fold it. “You do not. I have completed your tasks, now I ask you to rest. Perhaps in the berthroom?”

                Ratchet twisted and heard something in him snap. “It’s not the most comfortable, but I get what I can.”

                “Don’t we all,” Ratchet heard the Prime say fondly. Ratchet trudged by, still wringing the sleep from his frame. “Shall we?” Prime inquired, arm extended.

                Ratchet’s feigned sneer was unrelenting as he placed his palm over the forearm. “After you.”

                The stretch of hall was cozy without choking him. Size doubled, Optimus still made the space worth walking down. Their hold on one another become elastic over time but Ratchet was not one to wander off. Not like he needed guidance. Save for the one instance he was trapped in the closet they called an armory. It took thirty minutes to see the ‘door’ was a raised panel and the true entryway was at his backside.

                Perhaps Optimus’ concern for his sleep was not unfounded.

                “Your chambers, old friend,” Optimus said down to his comrade, “Or mine?”

                “Wipe that innocent smile from that faceplate you know damn well where.”

                With practiced precision, the door slid apart behind the Prime, entrance permitted under the covertly entered passcode. His free servo overturned before him, pulling the smaller frame with ease by the hand into his quarters.

                Ratchet sat snugly upon his lap, thighs eager to strain. Optimus began his usual pursuance of his frame, questing from one chevron’s corner to the other. The warmth of his mouth made Ratchet react much like the first time: squirming and already pushing away precisely what he wanted.

                He snagged the back of Prime’s neck and separated them like shoddily glued armor. “Hh… not all at once.”

                “Mm,” he agreed in tone only, “But it is you that rushes to finish.”

                “When I have things to _do,_ yes.”

                “And what does that make me, Ratchet?”

                Optimus gasped weightily as the medic surged forth, biting at a superficial line in the Prime’s neck. “Take your time then,” Ratchet said, pulling back, “Quickly.”

                Automatically, Prime reigned him in for a kiss. An unscrupulous servo ducked below, feeling a pathway straight to the doctor’s pelvic paneling.


End file.
